Page:Ewie wi' the crooked horn.pdf/7

7 No more by yon castle she wanders, To love she is no more a slave, Bereaved of all earthly comforts, She mouldering now lies in her grave.

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THE MILL, MILL, O.

Beneath a green shade I fand a fair maid, Was sleeping sound and still, O; A’ lowan wi’ love, my fancy did rove, Around her wi’ good will, O. Her bosom I prest, but sunk in her rest, She stirr’d na my joy to spill, O: While kindly she slept close to her I crept; And kiss’d, and kiss'd her my fill, O.

Oblig’d by command in Flanders to land, T’ employ my courage and skill, O, Frae her quietly I staw, hoist sails and awa, For the wind blew fair on the billow. Twa years brought me hame, whar loud raising fame, Tauld me, wi’ a voice right shrill, O, My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool, Nor kend wha had done her the ill, O.

Mair fond o’ her charms, wi' my son in her arms, I ferlying spier’d how she fell, O, Wi’ the tear in her ee, quo’ she, let me die, Sweet Sir, gin I can tell, O But love gave command, I took her by the hand, And bade a’ her fears dispel, O, And nae mair look wan, for I was the man, Wha had done her the deed mysel, O. '